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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25321102">take me to your dried-out cities</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhMaven/pseuds/OhMaven'>OhMaven</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Found Family, Gen, Grief, celebrating even though it's hard, minor relationship fluff, the family goes to an art museum and it's both cute and sad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:27:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,993</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25321102</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhMaven/pseuds/OhMaven</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Although Nile's birthday has come and gone, her newfound family is determined to make sure she knows that she is celebrated, and loved.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>68</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>679</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>take me to your dried-out cities</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>She’s twenty-seven now. It had been so easy to nearly miss her birthday; time moves differently with her new family. They mark the passage of seasons, more than months or days. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Joe hates winter, she’s learned. He digs out thicker shirts, pullovers, jackets, before anyone else; but he’s the first to suggest roasting marshmallows over a fire pit, or to point out that the constellations are so much clearer when it’s cold. Andy favors the spring. She thinks the others haven’t noticed, and maybe she’s right, but Nile has caught her talking about the sakura blossoms of Japan more than once. When it spreads out properly around them, allergies and all, Nile puts a vase of flowers beside Andy’s bed. In the summer, they all tease Nicky. He loves the sun, and it loves him in return, leaving red kisses along his skin that fade hours later. Joe worships every freckle, made visible by the additional exposure to sun, and it’s enough that Nile and Andy kick them both outside to ravish each other elsewhere.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Nile wonders if Booker suits the fall as much as the melancholy of it suits him. She wants to ask, but knows the others will droop like trees under the weight of their own dead leaves, if she does.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>So no one tracks the days and months outside of missions, weather-appropriate clothing, and their own seasonal preferences. Honestly? It makes it easier, the way that her birthday comes and goes without comment. Back home, she knows her mother and brother have put flowers on her empty grave, and she gives a compulsive shudder that her aunts would have said meant someone had walked over her grave. It’s even eerier, knowing that they probably have.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>But one morning, a week or so later, she wakes up to the tantalizing aroma of so many foods she can’t name them all; and when she steps out of the room she’s sharing with Andy, into the main area of their current safe house, she realizes what they’ve done. A neat stack of small packages sits on the warped sideboard, and the table practically groans under the weight of a breakfast feast. Nile almost turns on her heel, the sharpness of her movements still occasionally betraying her military background, but Andy’s arm is suddenly twined around her. She can feel the older woman’s palm cupping the back of her head, and she melts into the affection.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Maybe Booker and Andy had forgotten what that kind of touch meant, in all of their years, but Nile can feel the love poured out from the other three; she decides to give in gracefully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Either Nicky or Joe, they still move too much in tandem for her to differentiate their touch or momentum yet, nudge her into a chair. Andy sits across from her, and the two men take seats on either side. No one says the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>birthday</span>
  </em>
  <span> as if they know the ache of that loss is still too new, too raw, and she’s grateful for it. It is possible to feel celebrated - and welcomed, and accepted, and loved so unconditionally - without putting on it a word that no longer means the same thing it did a year ago.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <em>
    <span>Unconditionally</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Thanks to her presence, there’s never an empty chair where Booker should be, but Nile can feel it all the same. Despite having now spent more time with Andy and, as Nile had taken to calling them, </span>
  <em>
    <span>the boys,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she couldn’t forget that it had been Booker who’d first truly reached out to her. Who had understood her pain, and shock, the best. She wishes she knew how to contact him, so that she could send him an acknowledgement of his own significance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe can barely wait for Nile to finish eating before he begins handing over the packages. The first is flat, and heavy. She has to pass her plate to Nicky, so that there is enough room to set it down and unwrap. Underneath the plain butcher’s paper, there is a beautiful sketchbook - and a small pouch of pencils. When opened, the first page contains a sketch of her mother and brother; the initials on the corner of the page are Joe’s.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Joe - how did you?” Her fingers tremble as she closes the book.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“I asked Andy if she could borrow your phone for a little while. Do you like it?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Nile doesn’t have any words, so instead she throws one arm around the man’s neck, and lets him tug her into his side. The easy affection these people give one another has always been the easiest part of the whole experience to let herself get swept up in. She releases him slowly, and Joe pats her on the back once as he settles back into his own seat. The next two packages are from Andy: the first, an expected practical (if beautiful) gift of leather gloves that fit her hands perfectly; they are reinforced over her knuckles, and cut short at her fingers to allow her to utilize the touch-screen technology she has taken over managing; the second is a long chain, holding a silver-and-ruby cross pendant. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“I thought you said God’s not real?” She can’t quite look at the other woman, so she focuses on the pendant instead. It looks old, lost from another time; and it probably is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andy doesn’t answer right away, instead drums her fingers lightly on the table. “He’s real to you, anyway. I figure it’ll mean more to you, than it ever did to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nile lifts the chain over her head; the pendant slides down her chest, settling with her dog tags just below sight of her scooped tank top. It occurs to her, in this moment, that this is another thing Andy and Booker seemed to have lost sight of. Forever is a damned long time, and there are some horrible elements to it. When she closes her eyes, she still sees the face of the first man she ever killed - she thinks that no matter how old she gets, she’ll never forget the sound of his voice demanding her to leave him to die. But it’s this, too. Meaningful moments with people who know you inside and out, who spend hundreds of years learning your ins and outs, who give you things because they know you, and they love you.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>She clears her throat, and picks up the flat envelope that is left. Nicky leans forward, and she can feel his anticipation as she carefully slices the envelope open with her finger, and withdraws four tickets.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“What’s this?” Nile squints at the Italian, which she doesn’t read yet, and then leans back with a slight gasp. “The Galleria Borghese?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky lets out a triumphant sound, and leans across the table; his blue-green eyes are alight, her own growing excitement reflected in them. “I hear you like art.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>It’s true, she does like art. It’s a passion she didn’t realize she shares with Nicky, but probably should have. After all, whenever Joe sketches, Nicky is right there with his head tucked against his other half’s shoulder, eyes following the movements of the pencil. Apparently, their unified enthusiasm is required to get both Andy and Joe to accompany them on the private tour that has been scheduled for her unofficial birthday. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Don’t they enjoy looking at art?” She asks Nicky as they follow the guide along the private tour. Joe has been scowling since they arrived, and Andy looks - not quite bored. More like Nile’s mother had, when Nile and her brother had wheedled their mother into seeing Haunted Mansion for a third time. “Or is it weird?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Nicky laughs, and although it’s soft, the sound gets caught up in the high frescoed ceiling of the room they’re standing in. “You’ll have to ask them, I think.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She might have, too, if Nicky hadn’t chosen that moment to twine their arms together and lead her away to look at a marble statue so intricately and realistically carved it makes Nile dizzy. In her hand, the sketchbook grows heavier and heavier. Nile’s never had an art lesson; that’s why art history had felt so much more accessible, but she realizes now that she has been given a silent approval by her new family to pursue this passion. A window into the possible gifts of her immortality, rather than the all-consuming grief Booker had painted.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>At the end of their guided tour, the four of them are deposited into the general admission area of the museum once more. Nicky disappears, after a soft word to Joe that Nile can’t hear. She wanders away from Andy and Joe, herself. They’re already discussing lunch, but she’s still full from breakfast, and a painting has caught her eye. It’s hanging in the foyer, and if she hadn’t spent all that time staring at Copley’s damn wall last year, she doesn’t think she’d have noticed it. It’s the smile, she realizes suddenly, that gives it away. Something only someone who </span>
  <em>
    <span>truly</span>
  </em>
  <span> knows Nicky would even pick up on. The way his whole face softens and brightens when he looks at Joe. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Hanging in this museum foyer, is a Renaissance painting of their Nicky.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“They never got the eyes right,” comes Joe’s voice from over Nile’s left shoulder. “The color - it’s off, you know? I kept trying to tell them. I could spend a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hundred years</span>
  </em>
  <span> perfecting the exact color of teal of Nicky’s eyes.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“If I recall correctly,” drawls Andy over Nile’s right shoulder. “You did.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“None of </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> paintings ended up in a museum, though. They’re all stashed away somewhere.” Joe sounds a little cross, but when Nile turns to look at him, he offers one of his quick winks. She finds herself smiling back, recognizing the grumpy affection of a man long in love.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Is that because Andy didn’t want you giving everyone away, or because that art was too explicit even for the Renaissance?” Her tone is dry, almost brittle, but the quick lift of Joe’s eyelids tells her the humor is well placed - and definitely not wrong. He opens his mouth to respond, but they are interrupted by Nicky’s return, several paper bags from the gift shop slung along one arm.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Is he still angry about the naked statue?” Nicky asks, slightly huffy, his previously-discussed eyes rolling towards the arched ceiling. Joe replies in a low, slow, language that Nile knows she’s not meant to understand, and she hangs back as the two men turn towards the exit, Nicky’s free arm slung casually over Joe’s shoulders.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Next to her, Andy pauses. “That’s why I don’t like art museums.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>It’s so droll, and perfectly timed, Nile can’t help but laugh. She lets Andy loop their arms together, and they step out into the bright Italian sunshine together; walking a little ways before the older woman brings them to a stop. “There’s one more present.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>She fishes around in the bag she’s been carrying, and offers a small package to Nile; steps away as she takes it, and continues to follow the boys back towards the street. Instinctively, Nile knows this has come from the absent member of the family, the one she can’t ask about, but whose absence she feels almost as keenly as any of her other recent losses. There’s a bench just to her right, and Nile settles on it, so that she can balance the package on her thighs while she opens it. Inside is a small, very old-looking, book. Utopia.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The sticky-note on the front reads:</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>To start your collection. Happy Birthday. -B</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Nile runs her fingers over the battered cover, wishing she could thank Booker in person. Maybe she can’t see him right now, but if he’s going to be giving her little gifts, she can return them along the same route. </span>
  <span></span><br/>
<span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Tipping her head back to soak in the bright noon sun, Nile thinks maybe there’s hope - and promise - after all.</span>
</p>
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